27
by The Clockwork Angel
Summary: All Will hears someone shout is a number, a number that will shatter life as he knows it. But that won't prevent him from using his new plane of existence to bring an unlikely criminal to justice.
1. Murder

**Chapter 1: Murder**

_The frigid winter air stung Will's cheeks and ears as he tore through the dead forest at an alarming speed. He could feel his lungs desperately trying to get air, his heart trying to keep up, his brain trying to stay conscious, and his muscles trying to carry him as far away from them as possible. He was enveloped by cold and pain, cold from his minimal clothing, and pain from the constant torture. Blood trickled down his throat, down his legs, down his arms, soiling the once-white nightshirt. It was more of a rusty color now._

_Will had been running for what felt like hours. He didn't know how he was still retaining his speed; he had expected to collapse from exhaustion by now. But no matter how far his legs carried him from that hell, it wasn't enough. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, screaming at him to keep going, to keep running. He knew it wouldn't last, that at some point, he would faint from exhaustion, dehydration, and malnutrition. He knew that no matter how loud he screamed, no sound would come out. And he knew that no matter how hard he prayed and wished, he would never see Halt again. _

_Will could hear hoof beats behind him, catching up to him, preparing to overtake him. He figured he would be hefted onto the saddle, knocked unconscious, drugged, then returned to the small, confined hell that was home. As the horses drew closer, he could hear the frantic yelling of his captors. And as he heard someone yell "27!" he felt a cold, sharp pain in his back. He skidded to a stop and looked down at the sword lodged through his heart, driven through the back and ripping out the front. In shock, Will collapsed, blood spurting from his mouth and wound. He was dead in a heartbeat. _


	2. Morbid

**Chapter 2: Morbid**

Four men simultaneously tugged the reins on their horses, stopping the beasts before they carelessly trampled the body of the young Ranger. One of them jumped down from the saddle and onto the cold, snowy ground, heading toward the lifeless, pale figure on the forest floor. Removing his glove, the man pressed two fingers to the boy's neck, satisfied when he felt no pulse. He roughly rolled the boy onto his back, driving the arrow further through his chest and forcing warm blood to flow from the corpse. It was a shame really, he thought, that one so young had to die. But the child was a threat, and could no longer be allowed to develop the necessary skills to be a Ranger.

Standing up and replacing his gloves, the man motioned for his companions to join him as he roughly lifted the corpse and swung it over his shoulder. "The swamp," he said curtly, and allowed the three other men to lead the way toward the dilapidated bridge that stretched across infamous swampland.

As the four men trudged through the forest, their horses trailing closely behind, they nervously flicked their eyes back and forth, looking to one side and then the other, displaying their guilt. The sounds of creaking tree branches and whistling wind caused the murderers to become more and more anxious; their hands began to shake, the hairs on the backs of their necks stood up, and goosebumps sprouted across their skin. These sensations only worsened as they arrived at their destination.

Decades ago, a powerful storm had ravaged the homes that surrounded the swampland; it had come unexpectedly in the middle of the night, catching the families of the area off-guard. The swampland had risen up, cascading through the windows and doors of the homes of its victims, resulting in thirty-six dead, twenty of which were children. Legend held that the souls of the dead were not yet at rest, their bodies rotting in the swamp, unrecovered, with no proper burial. Incautious wanderers claimed to have seen apparitions, heard the screaming of mothers, the crying of children, and the rage of the storm. Though many of the residents of the nearby village believed these experiences to be false, the area was never traversed, and the remains of the homes had been abandoned.

The four companions stopped at the swamp's edge, feeling the ghosts of that dreadful night tickle their senses.

"Just dump him in and get it over with," their leader commanded. He was several paces away from the others, having handed them the corpse, and his voice shook as he made the statement, proving that he was just as superstitious as the rest of them. He nervously rubbed his hands together and drew his cloak closer to his body; the temperature had significantly dropped in the short time the men had spent around the swamp.

Sharing one last apprehensive look, the three men tossed Will's body into the muck, watching as it slowly sank, and finally disappeared.


	3. Misery

**Chapter 3: Misery **

Gilan sat on the bottom step of Halt's verandah with his head in his hands. Tears dripped down his young cheeks as he heard Halt go on a violent rampage of misery; pots and pans were thrown around, furniture broken, and cries of anguish permeated the air. In all the years Gilan had known Halt, he had never seen him so emotionally expressive; he had expected Halt to carry his sorrow quietly, maybe even cry by himself. But nothing could have prepared Gilan for the reign of terror his former mentor had embarked on.

A pregnant pause disrupted the noise, and Gilan could hear Crowley try to console his old friend. He stood and very quietly crept to the window; Halt was seated in the only structurally sound piece of furniture in the living area, Crowley kneeling down in front of him. Gilan could just barely make out the moisture on Halt's hallow cheeks, and was struck with the realization that he had never before witnessed Halt cry. He slowly turned away from the miserable sight before him and returned to his gloomy contemplation.

Crowley looked at Halt with immeasurable sympathy. In the short three years Will had been Halt's apprentice, a bond had been formed, not just between teacher and student, but between father and son. When Crowley made the decision to declare Will dead after a four month search, he knew Halt would be affected very, very deeply. Just a year prior, Halt had willingly sacrificed his position in the Ranger Corps to search for the young boy in Skandia, and once Will went missing on an autumn night many weeks ago, Halt had been ready to drop everything all over again.

Crowley sighed, unsure of what to say. They had done all they could, but apparently it wasn't enough. Now, friends could only hope that Will was at peace.

Halt's head, which had been lowered to the ground, slowly came up, exposing a hungry, haggard face. His eyes were bloodshot and ringed with shadows. His previously tan skin had transformed into a pale, sickly color, and was drawn tight over strong cheekbones. Crowley had never seen his friend so utterly destroyed, and it frightened him.

"Dear God, Halt!" Crowley exclaimed. "You look like the walking dead!"

Halt winced at the word choice, and instead of responding, just lowered his head back to the ground.

Crowley stood and tugged on Halt's elbow, trying to get him to stand up.

"You need some food, some coffee, and a lot of sleep," Crowley said gently. He tugged a little harder on Halt's arm, finally succeeding in making the man stand, and ushered him over to the small table Halt used for eating meals. Halt followed along like a zombie, eyes devoid of any type of intelligence, footsteps dragging, and head still lowered to the ground. He remained that way until Crowley placed a plate of bread and fruit in front of him.

Crowley watched with satisfaction as Halt tentatively began picking at the food; he started with the cut up pieces of apple (which Crowley knew Halt was a sucker for) before making his way through the peaches and pears. Before long, the plate was empty, and a little bit of color had returned to Halt's cheeks. Crowley smiled gently.

"Do you feel better?" he asked. He looked at Halt earnestly, who just glared in return.

"I am not a child, Crowley," Halt growled. His eyebrows had drawn close together, giving him a menacing look, but Crowley had known him long enough to not be intimidated.

"I'm not treating you like a child. I'm treating you like a friend in need of help." Crowley removed the empty plate from the table and returned to it to the kitchen area, starting the coffee as he did so. The area was cluttered with dirty silverware and dishes, and Crowley made a mental note to give everything a good cleaning before heading back to Castle Redmont with Gilan.

With a pang of guilt, Crowley realized that he had left the young Ranger outside on the verandah for nearly two hours, and he was probably anxious to see Halt.

Crowley quickly crossed the room and opened the heavy front door, revealing a very teary Gilan, sitting in one of the large wooden chairs Halt kept outside. At the sound of the door opening, Gilan turned, eyes red and watery, hands shaking. Crowley gestured for Gilan to join him and Halt inside, and soon set to work on preparing a third mug of coffee.

Gilan slowly sat down next to Halt and placed a hand gently on his shoulder, unsure of what to say. He, like Crowley, understood the bond between Halt and Will, and that this loss ran deeper than that of a teacher losing a student. While Halt **was** a teacher to Will, he was also a father, and thus felt doubly responsible for the boy's care. Gilan had no doubt that Halt blamed himself for Will's disappearance, and would continue to blame himself now that Will was declared dead.

Gilan moistened his lips before speaking. "You can't destroy yourself out of guilt for something you had no control over." His voice sounded weak and lacked conviction, but he continued anyway. "Will wouldn't want that."

At that point, Crowley had finished preparing the coffee and placed two mugs on the table before sitting down and sipping his own. He remained silent as Gilan nudged one of the mugs over to Halt, who hesitated before bringing it to his lips and sipping appreciatively. The only sound was the bitter winter wind howling mournfully through the spaces between the boards of the cabin. It was freezing, but no one bothered to get up and start the fire for warmth. Sitting in the cold somehow seemed respectful to the young life lost not so long ago.

* * *

_Everything seemed…weightless. Like he was floating. But the air around him was thick and still, encasing him, trapping him. He tried to move his arm, only to realize that it took far more effort than it should have. Curious, he cracked an eye open, hoping to orient himself, but only saw blacks and browns. The atmosphere seemed tangible, but when he tried to touch it, nothing happened. He couldn't feel anything, yet he could sense that he was not out in the open air. He was somewhere cold and sticky, and he couldn't possibly understand how he was breathing._

_Abruptly, he realized he __**wasn't**__ breathing. He couldn't feel his lungs expand, taking in air, and deflating, releasing. He wasn't blinking, his heart wasn't beating, he couldn't smell or touch anything; what was going on? He tried again to move his arm, successfully pulling it free from the unknown substance around him. He did the same with his other arm and both of his legs, managing to work himself out of his makeshift tomb. _

_He broke the surface of what seemed to be a swamp. Dilapidated houses surrounded the large pool of muck, and he could see that each of them was abandoned, crushing his chances of finding help and answers. With that knowledge, he continued to work himself free of the slime, slowly making his way to a bank that sloped narrowly downward. It was a tedious process, requiring him to slowly inch each limb out a little at a time, but after what seemed like hours, he was able to crawl up onto the frosty ground. _

_The first thing he noticed upon freeing himself was an enhanced feeling of weightlessness. It almost seemed that he didn't have a physical body, tangibility, or…existence. He knew the air around him should have been cold and bitter, but instead of feeling goosebumps on his arms, he __**sensed**__ the frigid environment. He couldn't experience the temperature for himself, but he knew what it felt like. It was the strangest sensation. Not only that, but even after swimming around in a rotten swamp, he was perfectly clean. No mud, sticks, grass; nothing coated his skin. His breath didn't come out in puffs of air like he would normally expect, and breezes didn't rustle his air or nightshirt._

_Frightened and confused, he took off into the surrounding woods, desperate to find a pool of water that could reveal his reflection. _

_As he ran, his feet never really touched the ground, and he emitted no breathless sounds. Leaves and branches and bushes that were in his way posed no physical challenge for him; he was just a gust of air, gracefully gliding through an icy evening. He was so distracted by all of these new observations that he almost missed the small, frozen puddle of water, formed during a recent rainstorm. The ice was too thick to see anything in, so he found a sharp rock and punctured its surface, revealing cold, moving water underneath. _

_He peered into the water, curious as to what was happening to him. He saw nothing. Frantic, he picked up a nearby stick and held it up to the water, watching as its distorted reflection appeared, floating in midair. _


End file.
